I went to a poetry reading tonight in a very small art gallery. There were twelve chairs and nine of us, including the poet painter and her friend who also read a few pieces. The work was raw and personal. A sort of realism. I was a stranger, much older than the others. In the end I said thank you, but no one heard.
My father’s old Lee Enfield, wrapped and hidden in the bedroom closet comes to mind. A clip with three bullets is tucked between old letters and journals somewhere in the cellar. I’m writing this in the grocery store parking lot, rain drumming on the car roof.
I left quickly. They stood outside lighting cigarettes and watched me drive away.